𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

27

"Why is he here—the Christian dog?" a gruff voice barked from the crowd. The Viking's shout rose above the others as Bishop Heahmund was shoved forward by a group of warriors.

"Kill him!" came another cry, followed by more—a chorus of rage from the mob.

Ivar glanced sideways at Daenaera and murmured lowly in her ear. She nodded once and took his place on the raised seat beside the throne. He didn't want her exposed, not in front of them, not when they looked at her like that.

He wasn't worried for the bishop. No—what stirred inside Ivar was darker, colder. The way some of those men looked at his wife, his queen... It made his blood burn. Daenaera was his. His alone.

The crowd's shouts grew nastier, more vicious—"Christian dog," "traitor," "heathen scum"—until Ivar raised both hands. A wave of silence followed as if the air had been cut in two.

Heahmund stood, brushing the dust from his robes as Ivar's icy blue stare settled on him.

"Now," Ivar began slowly, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the dagger embedded in the round wooden table. "We decide whether you'll fight with us..."

He yanked the blade free and pointed it at the bishop's chest, the steel pressing lightly into the fabric.

"...or whether I kill you."

His words hung like a guillotine.

"Nothing is keeping you alive but me."

Heahmund lowered his eyes to the dagger. Then, almost casually, he said, "Why don't you give me the knife?"

Daenaera's brows knit together. Something about him felt off. Her instincts flared—a quiet unease curling in her gut.

Ivar tilted his head, intrigued. Slowly, he flipped the dagger in his hand, offering it hilt-first.

The bishop accepted it and held it up, testing the weight, his eyes never leaving Ivar's. Then—he turned.

The same Viking who had screamed for his death sneered, "Afraid? Go on, coward—"

Steel flashed. Blood sprayed.

Heahmund drove the dagger deep into the man's neck, then spit in his face as he collapsed.

Instinctively, Ivar reached out and covered Daenaera's eyes.

"Nyke daor nykeā riñnykeā, Ivar," she growled from behind his hand.
("I'm not a child, Ivar.")

He didn't flinch. "Nyke gaomagon daor jaelagon se future muñnykeā hen issa riñar naejot ūndegon ziry."
("I don't want the future mother of my children to see it.")

Ivar let out a short, wicked laugh and clapped. "I think he'll fight with us!" he shouted, raising his arms to the crowd.

They erupted.
"Heahmund! Heahmund!"

⸻

Later, Daenaera slipped away. She didn't want to argue. Not again.

"Ivar's with the bishop," she muttered under her breath as she roused Hvitserk from sleep.

"What?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Let's go eat. I'm starving."

He blinked at her. "Why aren't you with Ivar?"

"I told you. He's off with his prisoner. Again."

"You don't seem to like him very much."

"Who? The bishop or my husband?" she chuckled bitterly. "Either way—no. Now shut up and let's go."

⸻

When she returned to their shared chambers, Ivar was sitting on the bed shirtless, his eyes finding her in an instant.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, fingers undoing the braids in her silvery hair.

"Yes. Where were you?"

Her lips curled into a teasing smirk. "Why? Are you jealous, Ivar?"

He didn't smile. "I asked a question. Answer me."

Daenaera raised a brow at his sharp tone.

"I was eating. With Hvitserk. I would have invited you, but you were busy... with your prisoner." She picked up her dagger and left without waiting for a reply.

⸻

Ivar found her by the lake. She sat on a smooth stone, her feet just brushing the water's edge, her silver hair unbound and glowing in the moonlight.

He approached slowly, using his crutch to steady himself.

"I'm sorry, Dae," he said quietly.

She didn't look at him. "Sorry for what?"

"I... I keep thinking you'll leave me," he admitted, voice thick. "You're a princess, from a noble house. Beautiful. Whole. And I—"

She turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing.

"Ivar." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I told you a thousand times—I don't care about your legs. And you are able. You just found the wrong woman the first time."

A small, boyish smile tugged at his lips. He lowered himself beside her and rested his head on her shoulder.

"You're the only person I regret upsetting."

Daenaera turned to face him. "I love you, Ivar. That's why it hurts when you say things like that."

He lifted his head and touched her face softly. "I love you too... wife."

Then, in a whisper:
"Ivestragī's jikagon lenton."
("Let's go home.")

And he kissed her, tender and warm as the firelight dancing across the lake.